


M'Lady Likes to Wrestle

by williamastankova



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (sort of), F/M, Friends to Lovers, Grinding, Hurt/Comfort, Reunion Sex, Reunions, Slow Burn, Woman on Top, Wrestling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2019-04-22
Packaged: 2020-01-24 03:39:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18563155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/williamastankova/pseuds/williamastankova
Summary: Arya is a little bundle of fire that Gendry loves to wind-up and watch her go. However, Arya's known Gendry since she was a child; it's only natural that their relationship progresses when they reunite at Winterfell.(or, rather, based off of Grenn's story, of how he and the maid used to wrestle, until it changed when they got older).





	M'Lady Likes to Wrestle

**Author's Note:**

> This was based off of Grenn's story, because I re-watched a few episodes and felt it was really Gendrya-esque. Apologies for any mistakes/times where the characterisation feels off, but I hope you enjoy regardless :)

Arya's not especially _pretty_. Gendry knows this as a fact. In fact, above anything else, she's androgynous, with a little boy body. Of course, he knows this isn't her 'fault', because she's still only a kid. She's up and down like a plank of wood, but she's a kid, so anything else would be simply bizarre. He sees her as his sibling that he never had, both the little brother who spits and swears, and the little sister he wants to protect.

They argue, of course. Even now, after he's found out her dirty little secret - Arya Stark of Winterfell, oddly enough, is Arry - they still bicker. He loves to wind her up, because when she gets angry she's unpredictable. Sometimes she'll just yell at him, other times she'll cuss him out. Others she might hurry away and isolate herself from him (he hates this one the most), or, in times like these, she'll clench her fist and stare up at him, eyes bleeding fire and fury.

"Don't call me that," she warns, and her voice sounds like a knife.

He looks down at her, puts on his most irking lop-sided grin, and taunts her, countering, "Or what, m'lady? You'll have me strung up in the streets of your city?"

That's the final straw for her, it seems. She launches at him, her boyish body having surprising impact as she managed to tackle him to the ground, beating her little fists on his chest like some unruly animal. She's trying to hurt him, obviously, but she's doing an even worse job than normal.

"You can do better than that, m'lady," he's sure to repeat the title again and again, because he knows this is what riles her up. "Or perhaps you should fetch one of your soldiers to do the job for you."

Arya continues kicking him but gives up with her punches, seeing they're having no impact on his torso. She glares at him as her legs continue to work, trying to damage him somehow, in some way. "If I were a lady, I'd have you skinned and burned alive. Like the Boltons, only worse."

Gendry feigns fear, but then bursts into laughter. "I'll have to defend myself then, your grace."

Hearing him up her ranking, her eyes widen, but she doesn't have time to respond - to act out, to hurt him again or bite or anything - before he's rolled off of his back and is pushing back at her. He knows that, because he's so much stronger than her, he has to rein in his efforts, to control his violence. Even still, he does what he can to pin her to the floor, until she's stopped being able to writhe and is instead breathing heavily, clearly exhausted at having to fight a man so much heavier than her, and instead takes to silently glaring at him.

He stops, keeping her under control, but suddenly feels a pang of guilt. It's almost like he knows what's coming, because he's seen it all before. He gradually lessens the weight on her, feeling his stomach drop when she wriggles out from under him and slinks off.

He's barely able to call out a careful, 'Arry', before she's out of sight, but most certainly not out of mind.

**

In some time, she forgives him. Eventually, she sneaks back to him and sits quietly, their apologies unvocalised, and then continues on as normal.

Regardless, they don't change the way they act. He's still an arse, and she's still a monster. He pokes at her, prodding where he knows she doesn't like him to, making jokes about her height and lack of strength, but in return she still fights him, insults him back, and they're completely back on friendly terms in no time.

Then, there's the night.   
That night, where Gendry found himself unable to sleep. Figuring it was just one of those nights, he sought his dirty jacket, checked the room of sleeping boys and men, and slipped out of the room. He didn't know exactly where he was going to go, but he wanted something to do that might tire him, to help him rest his bones easier.

He hadn't had a night like this since he was in King's Landing. It wasn't an specific event that led to his insomnia, but it had sprung itself upon him like a vile man on a tavern wench. It clung to him, whispered to him, and suddenly he had realised it was inescapable. Then, just as he had now, he sighed, and resigned himself to a sleepless night.

This time, though, it took only moments for him to find a task. A source of interest, a sound emanating from the inside of a closed door. He recognised the room as a place they had been eating as of late, due to harsh weather making it dangerous for them to continue up the King's Road. They had been forced to stay in the quaint village they were in, where it was just them and absolutely no girls at all. Well... maybe just one.

And the girl, he saw soon enough, was here, as the source of the noise. As he peered into the room through the gap in the ajar door, he witnessed a sight he had never expected to see. There, sat at one of the rickety tables, head in hands, was Arry - no, Arya - sniffling and sobbing, it seemed, like a child might do. Of course, he realised, it was something a child might do, because it was something a child /was/ doing. He felt immensely foolish, and at a complete loss as of what to do.

Unwilling to break the peaceful silence of the night and potentially scare Arya, he instead alerted her to his arrival by pushing the door open a little more. The creak was intentional, as was the horrid sound the floorboards made as he crossed them. The girl, startled, looked up at him, face blanketed by a stream of tears. Seeing it was him, she immediately turned away and began scrubbing at her cheeks, dabbing her eyes in a vain attempt to rid them of tears he had already seen.

He quietly crossed the room, stopping momentarily to consider his best option, then settled beside her on the wooden bench. He eyed her although she avoided looking at him altogether, seeming embarrassed at being caught in such a vulnerable position. Gendry considered wrapping an arm around her shoulder, but decided against it. After all, no matter how delicate she seemed in the moment, he was sure Arya could and most certainly would amputate him if he tried to comfort her in such a foul, girlish way.

He instead opted to pay close attention to her, so that she could feel how she was far from alone. He waited for her to finish drying her cheeks and reluctantly turn back to him when she realised he wasn't going to leave, regardless of how long she pretended he wasn't there. She first outlined his face, then settled on his eyes. She tried her best to look standoffish, but her voice faltered and the red smears on her skin betrayed her.

"What do you want?"

She had tried to sound intimidating, Gendry could tell, but failed miserably. Even so, who was he to mention this? A lowborn bastard, that was who. Compared to Arya of house Stark, that was nothing. Less than the beetle he saw scrambling across the floor as he waited for his brain to form a response.

"What were you crying about?" He asked, voice softer than any he'd ever used with her. He kept his eyes on her, even when her head shook and her mouth twitched, threatening to send her into a puddle of tears once more.

"'s nothing." She claimed, though her actions and appearance suggested otherwise. He nodded slowly, but absolutely didn't drop the subject.

"Is it your dad?" He asked abruptly. He knew it was sudden, even a little rash, but he had a hunch, and he knew Arya didn't favour those who wasted time dancing around a topic. She liked to get straight to the point, even if his words did send a flush to her face.

"No," she said quickly, barely letting him finish his question. "I mean, yes, sort of. I dunno really."

He dipped his head, entering the corner of her vision when she looked away and seemed to pretend he wasn't really there again. Keeping his voice level, he tried again, offering, "You can talk to me, you know? As Arya, not just as Arry."

Her eyes flashed to him, and he felt her inspection process begin. She scanned his face for any signs of insincerity, and then rested back on his eyes when she felt sufficiently convinced. Even so, she avoided his direct line of questioning, much like those she had so often expressed her utmost disdain for.

"Why haven't you told anyone?" She asked, eyes squinting as she asked her question, exaggerating her confusion. "I mean, about me. Why haven't you sold me out yet? You'd get loads of money for it."

"If the Lannisters didn't kill me first," he chuckled, then regretted saying the first thing that came to mind. He continued, explaining, "It's not about the money, Arya. I don't give two tosses about gold, not really."

"What do you care about then?"

He paused. Now /that/ was a good question. What /did/ he care about? He knew it wasn't gold. Gold, while a nice asset to have, wasn't something to live for. Striving to be the richest man in Westeros, as he had learned, ended with you dead. Honour? Probably closer, but then again even the most honourable men had their heads chopped off. He wouldn't mention it to Arya, but honour was an unrealistic goal, albeit a respectable one. So, if neither of those two things that seemed so key in other people's lives were things he cared greatly about, what was?

His mouth and mind worked against him, and before he knew it he was uttering out a small, insignificant little word: "You."

The look on Arya's face would have been priceless, if he hadn't known for a fact his was a hundred times more embarrassing. Her mouth fell open, more than a little unsure of what exactly that meant. She looked like a deer seeing a spear coming flying towards it, and a pang of something not dissimilar to guilt coarsed throughout Gendry. He immediately wished he could take back what he said, but he couldn't. So, as all he had left to do, he attempted to turn it into a joke, or at the very least something less serious than what he had made it into already.

"If I didn't, why would I protect you?" He opened earnestly, then added, "Plus, when we get you back to Winterfell, I'm sure you'll give me a huge reward yourself, won't you, m'lady? My own forge, perhaps?"

Thankfully, Arya took the bait. The look on her face dissolved and she divulged into a short burst of laughter. "You drive a high price, Gendry. I might just have to knight you and have it over with."

Gendry faked horror, and waved his hands in the air dramatically, in a motion of 'please, oh, no!' that he hoped would amuse Arya further. "You wouldn't, m'lady! You couldn't!"

Arya chuckled, but then the sound died down. She looked partially sad once again, though not so as she had when Gendry had first come upon her, and she solemnly stated, "I'm not a lady. Sansa and my mother are. I could never be a lady."

Gendry instinctively reached out a hand to grasp Arya's face in a way that pushed about the fat of her cheeks, so she looked almost like a different human being. He squeezed it to punctuate every word he said next.

"You are, though. Yes, you are. Lady Arya of Winterfell, that's me!" He pretended she were a mime, or perhaps a puppet on strings like he had seen on the streets of King's Landing once or twice, so he spoke for her. "Pretty Lady Arya, with laced dresses and combed hair. I never smell of dung, not ever, good Sir!"

"Right, that's it."

Gendry, as a plus, was glad to see Arya looking more cheerful. She had looked to macabre earlier that he thought she may be considering the incomprehensible, but no. Not now, at least, as she broke into a great big smile and threw herself at him, bringing him to the floor with a solid thud. A moment of silence passed in which they both awaited Yoren or one of the older boys, maybe even a raper, to come through and check all was in order. When this didn't happen, however, they both simultaneously leapt into action, crawling about, desperately trying to pin the other, to win the unspoken war that had been declared between them.

Arya barely stifled her giggles, and Gendry breathed out his amusement. His airy laughs were all that filled the room except for the excited inhales from the girl he was fighting, and even he was surprised by how much effort he actually had to put in to tame the girl. By the end, though, she was out of breath and beneath him, pinned by his weight. He was panting, which was new, and he could tell she was getting stronger.

They called a truce and, without another word, the pair of them - grateful to be tired out, for separate reasons - slipped back into bed (if a spot on the floor could even be called that), and Gendry had minimal trouble dipping into his land of dreams.

**

He's older this time around. Mere weeks after the last time they wrestled, they'd been split up. He hadn't meant it to be such a sad event, but when he signed the unwritten contract to go with the Red Woman to fulfill some other, higher meaning to give himself purpose or whatever he'd believed he was going to do. He'd abandoned Arya for the sake of a witch, who'd used and abused him. He'd trusted her (really, thinking back, he had no idea why) and she'd gone and put leeches on his body - on /there/ - which, frankly, had been less than comfortable.

He hadn't been lying, though. As sad as it had made him to say such things to Arya, especially when she looked so genuinely hurt by his announcement, nothing he had said was untrue. In fact, even before the Red Woman's arrival, he'd been thinking about it. Since that night, where he and Arya had mentioned him coming with her, back to Winterfell, an ice-cold chill had possessed his bones. He had begun to question what role he would play in Arya's life when she returned home, and then he doubted altogether that she'd need him at all.

That was why he'd told her such things. It was all completely true - she could never be his family, no matter how much he liked to play house and protect her like a sister or love her like a daughter, because she'd always be 'm'lady'. She, born of a house so much higher than his bastard status, could never belong to him, and anything he'd been able to offer her thus far would be rendered entirely useless upon their return to Winterfell. she would have protection - proper protection, from her family's soldiers, her brothers, her sister's military guidance. Gendry was - or, rather, would very soon be - of no value whatsoever to the Stark girl.

So he'd distanced himself. That, in the shortest way he could put it, was the reason why he had done what he had done, and was why he was now lying on a boat in the middle of bloody nowhere, trying to force himself into sleep.

In the dark, jerky moments of sleep he managed to get, she was there. She was always there, because he was damned by the gods, and there was nothing more devastating to him than to only be able to lament over a girl he had left behind so stupidly. He dreamed of her face. He heard her laughter, ringing like the sweet songs of birds in his ears. He saw the anger in her eyes when he annoyed her, and he saw the little spark that lit up in her when she talked about killing evil people. He loved her love for revenge, and with this ominous revelation he was rocked to sleep.

Of course, she was in his longer dream that night, too. It began slowly, and at first he couldn't even recognise her. He simply saw a woman before him, figure only a silhouette as she faced away from him, bathed in soft light. She had hair down her back - not so unrealistic, like those girls in the songs, but considerably longer than Arya's, that came to rest just about mid-way down her spine.

The woman had full hips that were visible even despite her warrior's trousers and, when she turned her head to the side, he saw her lips - full, not quite rosy, but enticing nonetheless. It was only when the woman turned around to face him did he realise it was her. Undeniable, really, considering her stance, her build, only she looked older in the face, and (though he did not like to admit it was the first place his gaze lingered) her breasts were fuller, signalling her beginnings of womanhood had taken place.

The woman - Arya, he could now call her - glided over to him, eyeing him up and down, her own eyes lingering on his strong torso, then on his arms. He may have heard her make some remark about his muscles, he couldn't be sure, because when he felt her fingers graze his cheek, he sucked in a breath and all other coherent thoughts melted away, ready to be reforged into the same one, a mantra of sorts, repeating 'Arya' in a hundred different ways.

Arya smirked, proud of her effect on him, and slipped her hand away. She took instead to reaching her hands down to his breaches, where she began working the knot he had absently tied there. Like a seamstress undoing her own work, she was finished in seconds, and then her hands were upon him, touching him there, and she was leaning her face towards his. He could almost taste her, could feel her breath washing over him like a hot bath in the wintertime and - oh, there was something happening. He could almost believe she was there with him, touching him, and-

Suddenly his eyes shot open and, once more, he found himself isolated, on a boat rocking softly with the gentle waves. It was pleasant to know he was in no immediate danger, but there was no Arya, and Arya was all he ever wanted.

He sighed, knowing he could never get back to sleep after that, and picked up his rowing again.

**

Arya was here. Now, in the room, with Gendry and Jon and other men who were either returning or arriving in Winterfell. He saw her before she saw him - she didn't see him, as a matter of fact, at least not that time - and so he had time to take her in. Her face, of course, was much the same as it had been. She still had cuts on her features, and her eyes admittedly looked a little tired still, but she had never been more beautiful.

As in his dream, she had grown considerably. In hips and breasts, naturally, as she had begun to look like a feminine woman now, not just a child of questionable sex. This, however, was not Gendry's primary focus. Rather, he admired the collection she had accumulated on her belt. At moment, she wore the same sword she had when he had known her, alongside a small dagger that rested pointedly at her hip. Gendry was fascinated.

Not only was Arya a woman now, but she was desirable. Beyond desirable, his body told him, and suddenly he felt rather flushed and bothered. He desperately wished he could avoid talking to her now, as he didn't want their reunion to be devalued by his biological reactions to her changed appearance. Thank all gods his prayer was answered, because she was ushered in by a beaming Jon, who seemed just as enamored by his sister as Gendry was (though, he hoped, not in exactly the same ways).

It was only days later, when he had properly gotten to work in the forge, that he felt settled enough that, when he caught sight of Arya in the corner of his eye, masked by the darkness of an arch in the forge, he did not jump. He simply fiddled with the metal in his hands, bringing it to rest on a safe surface, and turned back to face the girl - now woman - before him.

She seemed impressed that he had seen her. He considered asking her how long she had been watching him for, but then she was talking, walking over to him at a set pace as she did so. How could he even dream of interrupting?

"You look different," she stated, and he wasn't certain whether or not to be flattered. Then, she went on, "You've cut your hair."

"You haven't." Gendry smirked back at her, nodding once to signal the newfound length to her hair. It still wasn't /long/, but it wasn't cut like a boy's anymore. Resting a her shoulders, it made her look like a woman, as he had been noticing many things about her did now. He awaited her next signal.

"You abandoned me, for the Red Woman." She stated plainly, face still remaining emotionless. "You left us to die, so you could go and be with her."

"Yes," Gendry said absently, then shook his head, arguing with himself, "No. I mean, yes, I left, but I didn't leave you to die. You were in good hands."

Arya's eyebrow quirked, suggesting she didn't quite believe that. Still, she didn't further that point, going instead for a new route. "How have you been finding Winterfell?"

Oddly domestic. Also oddly impersonal, which Gendry loathed, and became determined to change this fact. "It's good. Great, actually. Your home is wonderful, m'lady, and now you look the part to rule it."

A flash of jest in Arya's eyes sped up his heart beat in his rib cage. "/I/ don't rule it. My sister, Lady Sansa does."

That was something else that was new about Arya, he made a mental note: she wasn't so easily irked as she had been as a girl. Interesting... perhaps it was time to try an alternative method.

"Yes, we've met."

Arya's head moved, but nothing else to indicate upset or jealousy. "And?"

"And?" He repeated, flashing teeth in a cheeky, brief smile, "I'm not sure I understand the question, Lady Arya. Could you please elaborate, for a lowborn bastard like me?"

"And what did you think of her?" Arya took a few more paces forward, bringing them closer. Gendry noticed a little scar on the side of her face, and the warmth hidden in the depths of her hard hazel eyes, "Is she as beautiful as they say?"

"Oh, yes," Gendry lowered his voice, sensing the tangible shift in the air. "And more so, if it isn't inappropriate for me to add."

Arya's eyes snapped up from where they had settled on his lips to catch his gaze. "Perhaps you should engage with her more. In times like these, it's no good to be alone at night. It gets cold at the best of times, and you'll freeze to death at the worst. That is, if the whitewalkers don't kill you first."

He didn't try to hide the amusement in his voice, though some part of him wanted to keep it gravelly and appealing. "That doesn't sound like very ladylike talk. I'll have to tell Jon, I'm afraid, m'lady."

"You wouldn't."

It's then that, before Gendry can quip something clever back and pull the ball back into his court, Arya's snatched out a hand and has a grip on the collar of his tunic. She tugs him down towards her, not to hurt him, but to bring her to her eye-level. She doesn't kiss him, even though he wants her to. He holds her gaze, because he knows if he looks anywhere near her lips he's going to end up kissing her before she's said what she wants to, and he's been long enough without hearing her voice.

"Not if it'd put my wellness in jeopardy."

Gendry eyed her, completely at her whim, and his smile became soft and dazed. He couldn't help the tone of endearment slipping into his voice as he said, "Anything for you, m'lady."

Gendry's not an optimist by any means. This considered, though, he doesn't think it's unreasonable to assume that, after this interaction, they're going to share a long-awaited kiss, and all will seem right in the world, even just for a moment, because it's just the two of them and that can only be right. Despite this, however, he's proven wrong yet again, because she's suddenly pushing him over and knocking the wind out of him, his back feeling instantly sore as he hits the floor.

Winded and bewildered, he can only watch her still. Adoring and questioning, he bears witness to her smirking to herself, then stripping off her belt and coming to join him on the floor of the forge.

She first mounts him, straddling his legs, and leans her head into the crevice of his neck to inhale his scent. He has no idea what he smells like - probably ash and sweat, if he had to take a guess, which doesn't sound too appealing - but Arya apparently likes whatever she finds, because she's letting out the sweetest, most minute sound Gendry's ever heard from her, and her hands are snaking their way up his chest and around his neck.

He's nervous to do anything, because in all the time they've been apart he's not sure how far she's gone. Hell, with his nerves, he's not unconvinced that he's just completely misread the situation and, even though she's started moving her hips atop of him, seeking some sign he wants to initiate something, he can only gulp and pray he's not about to wake up on some stupid boat, like he has the past hundred times this has happened.

Frustrated, Arya pulls her head back and fumbles for his hands, placing them atop her hips when she finds them, signalling him to do something or so help her god. Gendry, officially done questioning what Arya's wants are, gives in to what they're both wanting and brings his hips to meet hers, as he uses his grasp on hers to push them down. There's a jolt, something like static between them, and he's suddenly never wanted anything - or anybody - more. Their mouths open at the same time and they're riding the same high, both inhaling sharply, hands jolting, fingernails digging at the newfound pleasure in one another.

Gendry wants to undress them both. Actually, no, Arya would probably never let him undress her, because then she'd seem like a lady, and most ladies he knows don't tend to mount men like horses - at least not with clothes on. Granted, also, that Gendry has pretty much only two highborn ladies - Arya and Sansa - and he really doesn't want to think of Sansa right now, because he's got Arya on top of him. She wants him, and after so long he can finally admit he wants her too.

Clothes shedding can be saved til another day, he decides, because now Arya's leaning down to him, and her hands are on the side of his face, and he can't help but look at her like she's something to be marveled at because, gods be damned, she is. She watches him with heavy eyes, still moving her hips, and brushes her fingers gently across his face, outlining it. She's leaning so closely to him now that, just as in his dream, he can feel the hot breath leaving her mouth as it hits his face, still warm, but this is even better than anything he could have ever dreamed. He can feel the rise and fall of her chest, the steady heartbeat through her breast resonates, beats in tune with his own.

As he looks up at her, he realises he's never seen anybody more beautiful. Not anybody.

He can feel himself becoming overwhelmed by the sights and smells and feelings that are all completely foreign to him, but all more than welcome. He's tipped over the edge when she tips herself forward, careful not to lose their contact but feeling the strong urge to kiss him. It's sudden and it's sloppy, because Gendry doesn't think Arya's done anything like this before and he, frankly, is just too far gone to try and kiss her how he wants to. He privately hopes that she'll let him kiss her afterwards, and any time he wants to in the future.

He's coming undone, rather embarrassed because he hasn't even been touched by her, let alone inside of her, yet he's spilling in his own pants like a riled up youth. Come to think of it, that's almost exactly what he is, especially because this experience with Arya feels like his first, although that time is long gone now. She kisses him, then pulls back just enough so her bottom lip lingers on his top one, then he's acting like he's been shocked - convulsing perhaps is the right word, to a minor degree - and his grip on her hips tightens, then he lets her go.

His eyes peel open and the world is normal again. Normal except for the fact that Arya is still on his lap, looking down at him, eyes filled with something he's never seen in them before. He's seen her looking guilty. He's seen her looking mad, ravenous, upset, gleeful, but this is something alternate. Something he thinks he could definitely get used to, except...

/No time like the present,/ he thinks, knowing if he takes any longer to ponder over whether or not he's going to try to kiss Arya again he'll end up never doing it, and dying an old, sad, regretful man. So, he sits up slightly, keeping her on him, and dips his head in to kiss her.

She's immediately responsive, curling her body into his, pressing anywhere and everywhere she can to him, feeling the same need he is to keep in touch for as long as possible. He brings his arms around her, linking them behind her back, drawing her impossibly closer. His mind is blank for a moment, and he's only thinking about kissing her and how lucky he really is, alongside the repeated voice calling him a fool for waiting so long (to be fair to himself, he's been away for what, three years? Not much choice there). Then, something switches, and he's pulling back. Not withdrawing completely, but remaining only just close enough that he's not tempted to kiss her again - not just yet, anyway.

He takes a moment to have their panting breaths mingle in the space between them, then he looks her in the eye and, although he's smiling a little, he ensures his voice tells that he's completely serious. After all, it's something he wants her to realise and accept, just as he has.

"Arya," he doesn't say 'm'lady', because it's simply not the right timing. "Arya, look at me."

She does. Her eyes, still looking dazed, watch him, their eyes capturing the other's and they both have the same epiphany that they never want it to end.

"Arya," he repeats, loving how the name has a new sound on his tongue, "I... you're beautiful."

He doesn't mean it how he imagines she'll take it. She'll probably think he means like the fair maidens in the songs, who dance about and have perfect features, who always need a man to come and save them from any miserable situations they find themselves in. He doesn't mean it like that. He means she's beautiful how a wolf is beautiful. She's pleasing to look at, yes, but she's also dangerous, mysterious, and instills fear into those who don't know her well. She's beautiful not only in a woman's way, but in a man's way. She's beautiful like a knight is beautiful as he gallantly dances around his opponent in court, and she's beautiful how the sun sets and rises for all the world to see. She's beautiful not just as a woman, but as a person - as a warrior - and Gendry can't imagine ever leaving her side again.

He's expecting a slap to the face. Maybe she'll even tackle him, like they did when she was little. Maybe he'll have to apologise to her, bake her something, beg Jon to tell her how sorry he is - how he didn't mean it like that, and how he'll never say such an imbecilic thing ever again.

She doesn't do any of these things, though. She doesn't hurt him, act out, cry, feel hurt, none of the above. Instead, she cups one of his cheeks with a soft hand - but still, undeniably, the hand of an assassin, a beautiful assassin - and look him in the eye. She speaks with the sweetest voice he's ever heard when she tells him the three least-expected, most adoring little three words he's ever heard:

"So are you."

**Author's Note:**

> feel free to leave any comments/suggestions down below. thanks for reading!


End file.
